


Used

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Groping, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Nipple Play, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "There’s a cough from behind him, a throat cleared roughly enough to load the sound with meaning, and 'Oh, Hiro,' as if the encounter was some kind of chance meeting. 'You’re just the person we were looking for.'" Hiro is accosted on his way to class and finds himself more useful than he expected to be.





	Used

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Hiro’s on his way to class when he is accosted.

This is an unfortunate regularity in his life. He rarely makes it to class uninterrupted or indeed on time at all; between the requests for favors or pleas for assistance or outright threats that come his way, he’s always five minutes late and sometimes misses class entirely. Of course, without a regular partner that hardly matters as much as it might to someone else; but it would be nice, he thinks, to make it to lecture before the professor at least once, just for the novelty of it. He’s nearly there, today, pacing down the near-empty corridors on his way to the last turn before the classroom door; and there’s a cough from behind him, a throat cleared roughly enough to load the sound with meaning, and “Oh, Hiro,” as if the encounter was some kind of chance meeting. “You’re just the person we were looking for.”

Hiro doesn’t need the hand that lands heavy at his shoulder to stop the pace of his feet. The voice is enough, the implied request under the words sufficient to halt his forward movement; he’s turning before the hand encourages him to, looking back over his shoulder towards the voice as quickly as the fingers tighten against the fabric of the loose white shirt he’s wearing. It’s one of the older students, ahead of Hiro by a year or two at his guess; a regular, as Hiro tracks such things, one of those who comes up with particularly novel requests to offer every few days to occupy the other’s time. There’s another boy just behind him, a brunet Hiro doesn’t remember seeing before; he’s looking back down the hallway instead of at Hiro, his mouth drawing down on a frown as he scans the hall like he’s looking for any approaching passersby. It’s worrying, in itself; or, rather, Hiro would find it worrying if he thought that would give him any more ability to resist than the none he knows he’s going to have.

“Me?” he tries, bringing his gaze back up to the first boy’s face and trying a smile. The expression trembles against his lips; it’s hard to hold it steady. “I’m supposed to be in class; are you sure there isn’t someone better to help you out?”

“Very sure,” the other says. His hand is warm against Hiro’s shirt; there’s a shift against the fabric, the drag of weight moving up against the seam of Hiro’s clothes. “You’re exactly who I was looking for.” His thumb catches against the inside of Hiro’s shirt, weights the curl of the fabric down to bare the line of the other’s throat; when his fingertip comes out it’s to bump just against the line of Hiro’s habitual collar, his touch skimming against the line of it like he’s exploring the weight of the accessory. “It absolutely _has_ to be you.”

“Oh,” Hiro says. His knees are feeling weaker than they ought to, his hands shaky against his sides. “Really?”

The other nods. “Really.” He reaches out with his other hand to press his fingers against the open edge of Hiro’s shirt hem, where it’s falling loose some inches above the top edge of his low-slung pants; Hiro huffs an involuntary exhale at the touch against his bare skin, his body tensing reflexively against the contact, and the other’s hand presses flat against his hip, sliding under the loose weight of his shirt and drifting down over the angle of bone close under skin. “You’re the one we need, Hiro.”

Hiro’s skin is going hot against the other’s touch like he’s being electrified, like his body is trying to turn into the weapon he’s wished more than once he was in truth, just to save himself the trouble of being an unpartnered meister. Or maybe it’s the words that are having that effect, the purr of _necessity_ so warm and heavy in the other’s voice that it feels like syrup along Hiro’s spine, like satisfaction shuddering itself into being in the whole of his body.

“Oh,” he breathes, as the other’s hand slides down to press against the waistband of his pants where the fabric is barely clinging to his hips. “Cool. Yeah. No problem.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” the other smiles. His hand is pushing down farther, his touch still pinned flush to Hiro’s skin; the force is drawing against the weight of Hiro’s pants, adding weight to one side of an already precarious balance. Hiro would swear he can feel them sliding against his skin, can feel the fabric slipping lower against his hips when there’s already no leeway to be had; he has to reach down to grab against the front just to keep the barest shred of decency for himself, and even then he has to maintain his hold just to counter the force of the other’s touch as his fingertips wander the edge of the fabric, as his thumb presses against the dip of Hiro’s hip to slide actually under the other’s clothing. Hiro’s breath catches, his cheeks flush with self-consciousness; and against the inside of his pants, pressing close against the bare metal of the zipper, his cock stirs with the beginnings of interest as those fingers slip sideways to trail against his skin.

“Good god, Hiro,” the other boy murmurs, his mouth curving up at one corner on a smile as his gaze slides down to follow the line of his arm and the fit of his fingers inside the other’s pants. “Are those pants _all_ you have on?”

Hiro has to swallow to find moisture enough to give him back the ability to speak. “They fit too tightly,” he finally manages, his voice skipping up as the other’s fingers find out the front of his pants, as the other’s thumb slips dangerously close to the tension of the button holding his fly closed. Hiro has to let his own grip slide sideways to give the other space to move; his heart is beating faster with every breath of air he manages. “If I wear anything under them it shows through the fabric.”

“Of course,” the other says, but he’s not looking at Hiro’s face; his gaze is still down at the tips of his fingers and the edge of Hiro’s waistband drawing away from the other’s skin as he tugs against it. “A lot of things would be real obvious to see with pants like these.” His fingers tighten, his hold tenses, and Hiro has to grab at the belt loops at the sides of his pants to keep them from sliding right down and off his hips entirely. He stops them just shy of dragging free of his skin, keeps them barely over the angle of his hips by holding at the fabric with both hands; but it’s not enough to keep the front from pulling out and away from his stomach by an inch, enough to let some hint of illumination spill down and over him.

“Like that,” the other says, his voice purring over something between amusement and heat. “I didn’t know you shaved, Hiro.” He leans in closer, lifts an eyebrow into ostentatious interest. “Huh. Makes your dick look bigger too.”

Hiro can feel his face flush crimson. “ _Stop_ ,” he says, aware as he says it that he sounds petulant, that the heat in his face is spreading to his voice in ways he can’t quite control; that it’s spreading elsewhere in ways he can control even less. “Someone will...someone will _see_.”

“Yeah,” the other boy says, and he lets his hold on Hiro’s pants go, drawing his fingers up slow so his knuckles skim the line of the other’s stomach as he slides free. “I agree. Let’s go somewhere more _private_.” He reaches up, his hand curling proprietarily against the back of Hiro’s neck, just over the weight of his leather collar; and then he’s pushing, and Hiro is stumbling forward, his hands still holding his pants up over his hips and his cock so hard he can feel the fabric of his clothes straining over the heat of it.

The other student standing watch looks him over as they approach, his gaze dropping from the hand at the back of Hiro’s neck down against the fall of his shirt and to the taut fly of his pants; he huffs irritation as they catch up to him, tipping his head to talk to Hiro’s guide as he falls into step with them. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna play with him until we all had a chance.”

“I didn’t,” the first boy protests, not sounding at all apologetic. “I barely touched him and he fell to pieces. Besides, don’t you want him warmed up before we get there?”

“Fuck you,” the second growls. “Fine, then I’m calling first dibs on his ass.”

“You’ll have to fight the rest of ‘em for that,” the other informs him. “I just went and got him like you wanted me to. Don’t get bent out of shape about it, I bet you he has a lot more stamina than he looks like he’d have.”

“Where are we going?” Hiro tries, trying to sound more demanding than pleading and failing as thoroughly as he has failed at everything else he has ever tried.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” the first boy says without even looking at him. The fingers at Hiro’s neck tighten, a thumb pressing in close against his skin before the other shifts to casually shake Hiro into mild disorientation and leave him stumbling dizzy over the floor. “We’re going to take good care of you, you’ll see.” He cuts his eyes sideways at Hiro, his lashes dipping down so his gaze is shadowed out of clarity for a moment. “Unless you don’t _want_ to come with us.”

Hiro doesn’t know exactly what will happen if he agrees to this statement. Maybe it’s one of those rhetorical questions, like _want to practice training with me_ or _feel like picking us up some strawberry milk_ ; maybe it’s sincere, curiosity or concern motivating the words. It doesn’t matter. His pants are uncomfortably tight against him, clinging as if they’ve been painted over the heat of the arousal spiking up his spine and knotting deep in his stomach, and he’s not completely sure what he’s walking towards but he has enough of an idea to catch his breathing on embarrassing heat in his chest.

Hiro shakes his head. “No,” he says, sounding breathless and totally unable to stop the whimper in his throat. “I’ll go.”

“That’s what I thought,” the first boy purrs, with so much satisfaction on his tone that Hiro can feel pleasure like a drug down his spine at having given the answer the other wanted.

The second boy gusts a laugh from the far side of the other’s shoulders. “Yeah, and come too, I bet,” he says, but he’s not waiting for an answer when Hiro tries to tip his head to look at him; he’s taking the lead towards a shut door, reaching for the handle as the first boy guides Hiro out of the main pathway to follow.

“Got him,” the second boy announces as he pulls the door open and steps into the room. “Like we said we would.” There’s a murmur of voices inside, too many or too low for Hiro to parse; but the first boy is steering him forward without waiting, holding the door open and shoving Hiro in to stumble past the entrance on his own. Hiro trips over his feet, almost falling before he can catch his balance; he only barely manages, is only just looking up from his near-tumble as his guide pulls the door shut behind them and turns the lock with a _thunk_ that sounds decisive even before Hiro has managed to lift his head to take stock of his surroundings.

The room is dark. There’s a lightswitch by the door, Hiro is fairly sure; but no one has turned it on, so the only illumination is the dim light coming through the high windows at the back edge of what appears to be an unused classroom and what spills under the door that has just locked behind him. There’s a handful of figures standing in the room: five that Hiro can see, plus the two that have just led him here. And they’re all looking at him, every shadowed face is turned towards him like he’s a source of light, like there’s a spotlight casting him into the center of attention for every pair of eyes in the room. It makes Hiro’s spine prickle, makes his shoulders tense with the stress of being the focus for so many eyes at once; and against the front of his pants, against the straining fly still barely holding them on, it makes his cock twitch enthusiastic heat in response.

“You really did,” one of the shadowed figures says. His voice is familiar; Hiro’s heard it before on some half-dozen of the myriad commands he receives from his fellow students each day. The other has his arms crossed over his chest, Hiro thinks; he sounds amused, maybe a little bit impressed. “We were taking bets on if you were gonna take him to a closet and have a little fun before you brought him here to share.”

“Come _on_ ,” the first of the other two says; the certain one, whose fingerprints Hiro can still feel clinging just inside the waistband of his pants. “Give us some credit, we said we’d bring him.”

“No help to _you_ ,” the second says, his voice bitter with irritation. “For a minute there I thought you were going to fingerfuck him right there in the hallway.”

The first laughs without any trace of apology. “Probably could have, right? No one would have stopped us, him least of all.” There’s the sound of impact, a hand clapping hard against a shoulder, and then, a little more gently: “Don’t be such a spoilsport. You can have first go at him now, to make up for it.”

“ _Hey_ ,” one of the others says, starting forward from his position in front of Hiro; but another grabs his arm to hold him back.

“Let him have it,” he says, sounding tired and a little bit bored. “It’s not like we’ll use him up or anything. If Marcus wants to go to the trouble of warming him up I say let him have it. He did the hard part of tracking him down, anyway.”

“Damn right,” the second boy -- Marcus -- says. He sounds steadier, now, less petulant and more aggressive, like he’s coming into his confidence at the weight of the other’s words. “I _did_ do the hard part.”

“Have at it,” the calmer boy says. He’s still holding on to his neighbor’s arm but he lifts his free hand to gesture towards Hiro like he’s offering some kind of savoury dish for consumption. “He’s all yours.”

Marcus doesn’t hesitate at all. Hiro is still blinking hard, trying to refocus his dazed vision into clarity on the shadowed room around him; he’s still struggling to parse what’s happening, still trying to assign some measure of recognition to the blurry faces and almost-remembered voices of the boys in front of him. But behind him there are footsteps scuffing loud with haste against the floor, and then a hand at Hiro’s hip, fingers digging in so hard against his skin that he gasps and arches against the friction even before he’s pulled backwards against the warmth of someone else’s chest.

“All mine,” a voice says at Hiro’s ear, the speaker growling over the words like they’re sweet on his tongue, like he’s appreciating the flavor of them against the back of his teeth. Hiro’s skin flushes to heat with the sound, like his skin is coming alight in answer to Marcus’s voice; but there’s no chance for him to react, no opportunity even for the hiss of an inhale in the back of his throat, because Marcus has a hand pressing flat against his stomach, has his fingers shoving in and underneath the waistband of Hiro’s pants almost before Hiro has a chance to realize he’s being touched at all. Hiro’s eyes go wide, his hips jerk forward; and Marcus growls against his ear, his voice purring satisfaction as his fingers slide down against the heat of Hiro’s hard cock.

“You fucking pervert,” he says, making the words sound more pleased than judgmental. “Hard before anyone touched you, huh? You get off that much on getting pushed around?” His hand closes around Hiro, he strokes up roughly; Hiro’s whole body shudders, his head tipping back as he groans helpless heat in the back of his throat in answer to the unfamiliar fingers stroking up over him.

“You’re such a little slut,” Marcus says at his ear, biting off the words so close Hiro can almost feel the edges of the other’s teeth against his skin. “You walk around all day in just these _indecent_ pants--” as his wrist shoves at the edge of the fabric enough to push it off Hiro’s hips and an inch down the tremor of his thighs, “--ready to go for anyone who gives you the time of day.” The hand at Hiro’s hip loosens, the tension of the other’s fingers eases from his skin; Marcus’s touch pushes up instead of down, shoving Hiro’s half-buttoned shirt high up against the shift of his adrenaline-rushed breathing as if he’s trying to show Hiro off for the insufficient lighting of the room. Fingertips drag over Hiro’s chest, a hold closes tight against his nipple; Hiro moans at the pressure, lets the next tremor of heat through him drop him back to lean hard against the support of Marcus behind him. The other boy is hard inside his pants, Hiro can feel the length of him pressing against his hips when he leans back; Marcus makes a low sound against Hiro’s ear, jerking up hard with the hand closed around Hiro’s cock as his hips buck forward to grind hard against the other’s body. Hiro whines, the sound spilling wholly unbidden from his throat; his blood is going hot in his veins with every drag of the other’s hand over him and every twist of those pinching fingers. He’s not thinking about the array of boys standing in front of him, not thinking even about the first, whose touch drew the start of the heat now flushing him so hard against Marcus’s grip; all his sense of the present is disintegrating, collapsing on itself and unravelling into the simple, basic instinct for friction, for the heat and drag and satisfaction of that hand working over him with casual force.

“Fucking hell,” Marcus says, his voice going loud enough at Hiro’s ear that Hiro flinches away from the too-much volume; but Marcus isn’t talking to him, he’s speaking for his own hearing, or maybe for the benefit of that audience Hiro has to struggle to remember. “He’s so fucking hard, is he gonna come just from a little groping?” The fingers against Hiro’s nipple twist, drawing the friction of the other’s hold up and over the point of pain; Hiro jolts, choking off some incoherent protest, and Marcus lets his pinching hold go, laughing far back in his chest as he replaces the pull with the weight of his fingers instead to work idly over the hard point. “I can’t believe how sensitive he is.”

“Hey,” someone says, another voice Hiro doesn’t know and hasn’t heard before. “That’s not fair, you’re just playing with him now.”

“Yeah,” comes another; that familiar tone, the one Hiro almost recognizes even if he can’t put a name to it. “I thought you were gonna fuck him, not just fondle him a little.”

“Can’t even see,” a third complains; this voice low, grumbling over the words like it’s unwilling to let them go. “What’s the point?”

“Jesus,” Marcus growls. “I get my turn with him too, don’t I? If you want to see so bad turn on a fucking light.”

“On it,” comes a speaker from behind Marcus, the first one who accosted Hiro in the hallway; and then the lights come on at once, the brilliant glow of them blinding so Hiro flinches away from the glare and has to take a moment before he can blink his watering eyes back into focus enough to look around the room.

There _are_ five boys in front of him; seven in all, counting Marcus at his back and the first who just turned on the light. The more restrained one with the familiar voice is at one end of the line, considering the scene before him with almost bored attention; Ichiro, Hiro recalls now, with the details of the other’s face to go on. The one next to him is still scowling, someone Hiro doesn’t think he’s ever seen before; at the middle are a pair, weapon and meister together that Hiro has met on a few occasions. The meister Hao is big and broad-shouldered; his partner Raid is a little thinner, with lighter hair and a piercing against his ear like an echo of Hiro’s own. And then at the very end of the line is the last boy, another stranger; he’s squatting down, hunched forward over his knees with a scowl at his lips and his eyes fixed with absolute intensity on Hiro in front of him, and it’s only then that Hiro thinks to look down.

He’s more exposed than he realized. His pants are pushed off his hips, clinging to the tremor of his thighs now rather than doing anything at all to keep him covered; his cock is on full display for everyone, the flushed dark of it curving up against Marcus’s hand still working over him with deliberate focus, his balls hanging heavy and hot between his legs and as clearly visible as the rest of him. His shirt, too; the pale fabric is shoved up high against Marcus’s hold, the drape of it leaving the whole shudder of Hiro’s breathing as perfectly clear as the dark point of his nipple sliding under Marcus’s fingertips working idly over him. It’s obscene, Hiro can tell even from his own angle; seen from the distance the other five are at it must be even more so, when they can see how flushed his face is and how hard his breathing is working over his damp lips with every stroke of movement Marcus takes. The idea makes his body tense, makes his legs flex in brief, helpless action; and at his ear Marcus laughs again, a low, dark sound that goes through Hiro’s whole body like an open flame.

“He likes that,” he announces, pressing his thumb in hard against the head of Hiro’s cock and dragging to smear through the drip of precome that he’s worked from the other boy. “You shoulda felt how hard he went when the light went on and he saw you all looking at him.”

“Fucking slut,” Raid says, sounding more appreciative than otherwise; and “You should fuck him,” the boy at the end says without so much as blinking in his absolute focus on Hiro’s trembling body.

“Idiot,” the second boy in the crowd says, the angry stranger who seems ready to pick a fight with anyone. “You can’t just _fuck_ him like that, you gotta prep him first or he’ll bleed and cry and shit.”

“So do it,” the last one says. “Hurry up.”

“ _You_ do it,” the other snaps back. “Fuck you, Ombre, just because _you_ just want to watch--”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ichiro cuts in with a perfectly level tone. “Why are you fighting with him? You want to, don’t you?”

“Come on over,” Marcus suggests, bucking his hips forward to shove Hiro’s balance teetering over his toes and arching his back as his hips tilt forward in response. “I’ve only got two hands, there’s plenty of space for more.”

“Fuck,” the angry one growls, but he’s moving forward anyway, his hands curling almost to fists at his sides as he approaches. Hiro flinches back from the aggression of the other’s movement, wondering dizzily if he isn’t going to get a punch for some reason left unclear even in his own mind; but when the other lifts his hand his fingers shove into Hiro’s hair instead, his fingers curl to a fist to brace the other still, and his mouth comes down hard against Hiro’s mouth instead of the weight of a punch. Hiro’s eyes go wide, there’s a whistle of amusement from the boy still standing by the light switch; but the one in front of him doesn’t so much as hesitate before he’s licking roughly against Hiro’s mouth, his tongue demanding entrance that Hiro gives without any chance to think through the action. The other growls in the back of his throat, hot and satisfied with the sound; and then he’s licking into Hiro’s mouth, shoving closer like he’s trying to force his mark on the other’s body, and Hiro can’t think to do anything but shut his eyes and surrender to it. It’s too much to handle all at once -- the hand at his chest, the fingers stroking over his cock, the wet slick of the other boy’s tongue in his mouth -- and the pressure, the friction of being caught between two bodies at once like a cage made of heat and movement. Hiro’s legs are shaking, his breathing is stammering out-of-rhythm; and then the other boy lets him go, his hand pulling away as quickly as it came, and he’s dropping down to his knees at Hiro’s feet. Hiro has the brief, insane thought that he’s going to blow him, that he’ll replace the warm heat at Hiro’s lips with slick wet against his cock instead; but the other boy shifts sideways instead, straddling one of Hiro’s feet and grabbing hard at his hip as he pulls Hiro’s pants farther down his legs.

“I need some goddamn lube,” he says, snapping the words into so much force they sound more like an insult than the request they technically are. “Didn’t any of you bring any?”

“Didn’t _you_ bring some, Rust?” the boy at the door drawls, sounding highly entertained by this oversight. “You’re just as capable of thinking ahead as the rest of us.”

Rust tips sideways to glare around Hiro’s hip and towards the other. “Shut your damn mouth, Ian, I know _you_ came here planning to fuck him raw. Give me your damn lube already.”

“Sure,” Ian says. “If you want to do the prep work be my guest.”

“Fuck off,” Rust snaps, but he’s reaching out around Hiro’s hip, so he must be getting what he’s demanding in spite of his growling tone. “If I get him open I get to fuck him first, that’s only fair.”

“It is _my_ lube you’re using,” Ian says without heat on his voice; but he laughs when Rust growls. Hiro can feel the dig of the fingernails at his skin like they’re claws sinking into him to brace him in place. “No problem, I don’t want him until later anyway.”

“Good,” Rust says, a threat as much as agreement. “Slick me up.” There’s the sound of a bottle opening, a hiss of reaction from Rust down at Hiro’s hip; but Hiro isn’t really paying attention to the details of the motion happening behind him. Marcus is still stroking over him, still working his grip steadily over Hiro’s cock against his palm; he’s gone quiet with focus, now, but that just means his rhythm has steadied, has taken on a deliberation that’s spiking all Hiro’s blood hot on rising arousal in his veins. Against his ear Marcus turns his head, his mouth landing wet just against the side of Hiro’s neck; and Hiro lets his head fall back, lets Marcus take the support of his body while he shudders to the damp at his throat and the fingers working so deftly over sensitive skin. His cock is swelling harder, his balls are drawing up into the tension of anticipation; and then, from his hip: “Don’t let him _come_ ,” from Rust, and wet fingers push roughly against Hiro’s entrance in an ungentle bid for access. “Jesus, Marcus, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just playing with him,” Marcus protests. “If he can’t hold back enough to last…”

“It’s fine,” Ian soothes, and he steps forward and around Marcus’s shoulder, reaching out with casual disregard for the motion of the other’s hand so he can close his thumb and forefinger into a tight grip at the very base of Hiro’s cock, just over the tight weight of his balls. Hiro hisses at the pressure, at the sudden resistance tightening against him, but Ian doesn’t so much as glance at him, even when Hiro raises his head to look at the other boy. “Take your time, he won’t come until we want him to.”

“Fine,” Rust says, sounding only moderately appeased; and then he tightens his hold on Hiro’s hip, and shoves two slick fingers into the other’s body in a single jolting thrust.

Hiro’s eyes blow wide, his thoughts scatter. Whatever he was noticing about the pressure at his cock or the ache in his balls evaporates from his attention; all he’s thinking about now is the strain inside him, the sudden intrusion stretching his body wide around it. He’s gasping, choking over his breath as he tries to give form to a protest, as he lifts his hands to grab for something to support himself; but it’s Ian he grabs at instead of Rust, his fingers closing to desperate fists on the wrong shirtfront to actually effect any change in the situation.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps, and it’s a good thing he’s caught between two other people because he thinks he would collapse, otherwise, with the force of the sensation that tears through him at the press of those fingers. Rust growls in the back of his throat and pushes harder, driving his fingers deeper into Hiro by force more than gentleness; and Hiro’s body opens for him, the instinctive tension in him seizing tight but doing nothing to stop the slick upward thrust of the other’s touch. It feels strange, different and intrusive and wrong, a stretch and a burn that isn’t meant to be there; and Hiro’s cock is throbbing with heat, he thinks he would have come already were it not for Ian’s too-tight grip against the base locking him on the wrong side of orgasm.

“Fuck,” Rust says, sounding so breathless he forgets even to be angry. “Jesus, I can feel him clenching around me.” He slides his fingers back, drives in again; Hiro can’t help the way his body tightens against the other’s touch any more than he can hold back the whimper of reaction that pulls itself free of his throat. Rust groans from his position kneeling on the floor. “ _Fuck_ , that’s _so_ goddamn hot.”

“Wait ‘till you feel it around your dick,” Ian tells him conversationally, and Rust groans again, like he’s forgotten how to offer anything more coherent than that note of raw heat. Ian grins, his teeth flashing white in Hiro’s periphery, and the fingers against Hiro’s cock shift, Ian’s hand sliding around so he can catch the weight of Hiro’s balls at his fingers, can pull them up and work gentle pressure over them while Marcus keeps stroking over Hiro’s cock in his hand. Hiro’s whole body seizes tight, his hold on Ian’s shirt drags hard; and Ian laughs again, the sound bright and clear against the rush of Hiro’s breathing and the panting groans of Rust at the floor working his fingers up into Hiro’s body.

“He’s going to come as soon as we let him,” Ian declares. “You really _are_ anxious to be used, aren’t you?” Hiro whimpers, not sure if he’s protesting or pleading for more, and Ian chuckles in the back of his throat and squeezes gently against the hold he has on him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I think between us we can satisfy even you.” And he’s reaching over his own hand to pull Marcus’s touch away, to urge the other’s grip up and off Hiro’s aching cock. Marcus doesn’t protest this; he lifts his hand immediately to Hiro’s chest, pushing up the other’s shirt high enough to bare the whole of his chest at once so he can match his earlier work on Hiro’s as-yet-untouched nipple. The pressure flickers heat down Hiro’s spine, flexes tension through his thighs; but it’s distant, almost, nearly unimportant compared to the slick fit of the fingers still pumping into him. They don’t hurt anymore; they just feel like pressure, now, a heavy weight driving up into him on each motion, and Hiro can feel the friction pulling inside him and can feel the strange unfamiliarity of it twisting in his stomach and he thinks he could come, maybe, just from that, were it not for Ian’s fingers still bracing too-tight against the base of his cock. He’s breathing harder with every stroke, his feet arching at the floor in some half-formed attempt to rock himself back and down, to gain more depth for that motion inside him with his own movement instead of waiting on Rust’s; and then Ian reaches out, and catches his hand at the back of Hiro’s collar, and pulls him forward and away from the support of Marcus behind him. Rust flinches back, his fingers drawing free of Hiro’s body as he hisses protest at the sudden movement, but Hiro doesn’t have a chance to notice more than the loss of pressure inside him; he’s too busy clutching at Ian’s shirt and trying to catch his balance as he trips over the tangle of his pants around his knees. He falls forward against the weight of Ian’s arm at his waist, the other’s hold on his cock abandoned in favor of saving Hiro from a sudden tumble to the floor; but it’s only a delay, as Ian drops to a knee as soon as he has Hiro caught in his arm to drop the other unceremoniously to the smooth cool of the classroom floor beneath him.

“That’ll be better,” he says approvingly, drawing his arm away from Hiro’s waist but maintaining his hold on the other’s neck as he holds him down to the floor. Hiro blinks, feeling dizzy and disoriented by the sudden shift in his perspective; behind him there’s a pull at his clothes, a pair of hands grabbing and dragging his pants down his legs to his shoes without waiting for him to collect himself. “Come on, Rust, I think he’s had enough by now, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” Rust says, with feeling, “fuck yeah.” Hiro’s pants slide off one foot, his shoe slipping free along with them; Ian lets his hold on Hiro’s neck go and moves away, presumably to help Marcus work his clothes down and free of his other leg as well. Hiro is left sprawled on the floor of the classroom, his head spinning and thoughts hazy and cock still painfully hot against the resistance of the floor beneath them. He blinks hard, fighting himself back to some clarity of vision again; and then he lifts his head, and he sees his audience.

The remaining four boys have taken up notably different stances. Raid has his shoulders tipped in, his body curling in on itself like he’s trying unconsciously to hide how hard he is against the front of his pants; his gaze keeps flickering over Marcus and Ian behind Hiro, skimming over the scene as a whole like he’s trying to commit it to memory. His partner Hao looks dazed, like he’s too heat-struck to think of embarrassment; Ichiro is cool, composed, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth tugging on a smile as much amusement as arousal. And down at the end of the line Ombre has fallen back to sit cross-legged on the floor, one hand behind him to brace himself steady and the other working casually over the dark of his cock jutting from his undone pants. Hiro’s attention is drawn to the rhythm of the movement, to the grace of Ombre’s wrist flexing and his fingers shifting as he strokes over himself with a pace more sustained than intent; and then there are hands at his hips, a hold dragging him up over his bare knees without waiting for him to respond, and Ian’s voice, clear and carrying: “He’s all yours.”

Rust makes an incoherent sound, something grating over the anticipation of satisfaction if not the fact of it; Hiro hears the rustle of clothing, the drag of a zipper coming down. He wants to turn around, wants to see Rust as the other slides in to press his knees between Hiro’s, as his hands come out to brace bruising fingerprints into Hiro’s hips; but he can’t pull his gaze away from Ombre’s grip on himself, can’t stop watching the mesmerizing elegance of the other’s movement. Ombre isn’t looking at Hiro’s face; he’s watching his hips, where they’re pulled up sharply into the air and held still by Rust’s hands, his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips parted with obvious appreciation. It makes Hiro feel hot, achy through the whole of his body and down in the hanging weight of his cock between his legs; and then Rust tips his weight forward, and there’s force pushing at Hiro’s entrance, and everything else vanishes from his mind.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hiro hears himself saying, sounding unwarrantedly surprised; and behind him, “ _Fuck_ , he’s still too tight” in a growl of frustration at the back of Rust’s throat. “He’s not,” Ian says, and “Just push harder” Hao suggests; but Rust is moving already, his cock dragging against Hiro as he lets his hold on the other’s hip go to brace at himself instead. There’s a pull of slick, wet heat sliding across Hiro’s skin for a moment while the other lines himself up; and then pressure, a force bearing down against the tight of his entrance, and Rust groans something low and wordless just as Hiro feels himself giving way to the push of the other’s cock against him. His body opens up, loosened past resistance by the push of the other’s lube-slick fingers; and Rust’s cock slides forward and into him, driving deep into Hiro’s body with the first too-much force.

Hiro intends to shout. It’s the pressure, he thinks dizzily, the sense of something wholly foreign sliding so deep into him; but when he opens his mouth what comes out is something hotter, lower, a moan made plaintive on heat, and when his body clenches around the intrusion it’s almost a relief, to have that pressure back for his muscles to work around.

“God _damn_ ,” Rust groans. “He feels so _good_ ” and he’s moving without giving Hiro a chance to adjust, drawing himself back to take another long thrust forward. Hiro’s head tips down against the floor, his breathing spills out of him again; he doesn’t think he could control it even if he tried to, can barely think why he’d want to make the effort. His head is pressed down against the floor, his arms slack and barely helping to support his weight; his fingers tense with each forward stroke Rust takes, flexing helplessly in against his palms as if to make a fist, as if to hold himself steady. There’s friction inside him, a weight bearing down against his inner walls to make room for itself; and there’s pressure low in his stomach, a knot settling into place like gravity is more effective just there, like there’s something building trying to pull him back down to the ground.

“Come on,” a voice says -- Ian, Hiro manages to place after a moment. “The rest of you over there just want to watch?” A hand slides up against Hiro’s spine, pushing his shirt up towards his neck before fingers close around the fabric and pull to lift the slack weight of Hiro’s body up and off the ground. Hiro gasps for air, trying to get a hand under himself to brace his weight, but the hold at his shirt doesn’t ease to lower him back to his own control. “He’s got a perfectly good mouth, if anyone wants to make use of it.”

“I will,” Ichiro says at once, while Raid is still opening his mouth to find voice for whatever he might want to say. Raid and Hao both turn to glare at the other but Ichiro isn’t sparing them so much as a glance; he’s coming forward instead, striding easily over the distance between himself and Hiro held up by Ian’s hold at his shirt as he reaches to unfasten the front of his pants. “That’s more to my taste anyway.”

“Good for you,” Ian says, and lets Hiro’s shirt go as Ichiro comes over to stand in front of him, his feet braced wide as he unfastens the fly of his jeans. Hiro catches his weight on his hands and lets his head drop forward; it’s hard to keep his focus up when Rust is still moving into him with that rough rhythm, his pace completely unaffected by the conversation or movement happening before him. Hiro’s cock swings with each forward thrust of Rust’s hips, his whole body rocking forward with the impulse while his breathing catches in his throat; and then there’s a hand in his hair, fingers curling to a fist against the strands, and “Head up,” in a cool, calm voice. “Let’s see your pretty face.”

Hiro lifts his head. It’s not so much a matter of obedience as of surrender; that hold in his hair is unflinching, he suspects there would be no hesitation in it dragging to the point of pain if he were to resist. His head goes back, his gaze comes up to Ichiro’s face for a moment; and then down, because the other has his pants open around his hips, and the length of his cock braced in one hand, and Hiro’s attention can’t reasonably linger anywhere else with his position as it is.

“Open up,” Ichiro says, without any particular heat on the words; and Hiro does, immediately, his mouth falling slack and open like it’s more ready to obey the other’s command than Hiro’s own intent. Ichiro moves at once, without hesitating; he’s rocking his hips forward before Hiro has even completed his motion, tipping his weight in and against the press of Hiro’s lips, and then his cock is sliding in against the wet of Hiro’s tongue, and Hiro’s sucking in an inhale, and Ichiro’s fingers at the back of his head tighten to hold him still.

“Don’t move,” he instructs, and Hiro doesn’t, as much as he can with Rust’s movement still rocking him fractionally forward with every thrust the other takes. His mouth feels hot, his tongue is twisting against the strange, unfamiliar salt-bitter of Ichiro’s cock weighting against it; he feels panicky, like he can’t breathe, like there’s not space enough in his body for the stretch of Rust’s cock working into him and the air in his lungs and the heavy weight of Ichiro’s length filling his mouth. He’s going to choke, he thinks, he’s not going to be able to breathe; and then Ichiro stalls his forward motion, and draws back by an inch, and Hiro is able to hiss a breath through his nose before the other slides back forward again.

It’s distracting. Hiro had thought he might end up coming from Rust fucking him, could see the outline of satisfaction forming itself from that all-in awareness of something moving inside the tension of his body, of someone using him for such clear ends under the gaze of so many watching eyes; but now it’s Ichiro who holds his attention, with the heat filling Hiro’s mouth and sliding farther back over his tongue on each stroke. Hiro can’t pull away, there’s nowhere for him to go; he’s caught between Rust behind him and Ichiro in front, even his ability to speak stripped by the pressure bearing down to still the motion of his tongue. All he can do is hold still, is let himself be worked into by both of the other two at once; and then Ichiro’s hand at his head slides to the side, his other palm comes out to brace Hiro’s head in place, and when he rocks forward his cock slides deep past Hiro’s lips, over the slick of his tongue and into the heat of his mouth, back and back and back until the weight of it bumps against Hiro’s throat.

Hiro chokes at the pressure. He can’t help it, the reaction is too involuntary for him to restrain; but Rust groans behind him, apparently encouraged by the convulsive jerk that ran through Hiro’s body, and Ichiro is still holding Hiro’s head in place, still pushing forward with slow care to slide deeper. His cock pushes at Hiro’s throat, the length more than Hiro expected, more than seems possible; and then Hiro’s throat relaxes, some instinctive tension giving way as inevitably as his body opened to Rust’s movement, and Ichiro rocks forward to sink the head of his cock an inch down Hiro’s throat.

Hiro can’t breathe. There’s no space for him to take an inhale; the whole of his throat is filled with Ichiro’s cock, his airway blocked off by the intrusion of the outside force. Ichiro huffs a breath over him, a low sound of satisfaction, and draws back; but it’s only for a moment before he’s coming back in, pressing in so close that Hiro’s lips brush against the curling dark of the hair at the base of the other’s cock. Hiro feels dizzy, like he’s going to pass out or maybe like he’s turning into pure heat, like his body is converting itself into something new, hotter, greater than it was; and from behind him: “God,” a voice he can’t identify as anything but not-Ian’s for a moment. “He’s getting off so hard on this.”

“He is,” Ian agrees. “Why don’t you touch him, Marcus, I bet you can get him to come for just a stroke or two.”

“Yeah” the voice -- Marcus -- agrees. There’s the sound of footsteps, movement drawing close to Hiro’s hip; and then a hand at his spine, a palm spreading wide at the dip of Hiro’s back. Hiro quivers at the contact, the heat of anticipation pooling low in his stomach; and a hand fits between his legs, a palm pressing in against the taut heat of his balls before drawing up to curl fingers to a fist around his cock. Hiro jerks at the friction, his eyes going wide as his throat strains over the moan he wants to give; but Ichiro is still filling his mouth, and Rust is still filling his body, and the most he can do is tremble in helpless reaction as Marcus’s grip strokes up over him. The sensation spills out into Hiro’s body, twists the pool of heat in his stomach into the weight of inevitability; and the hand keeps moving, urging him closer towards relief at the same time the other two boys continue to chase down their own orgasms. Hiro can’t breathe, he can feel the strain building in his chest in every too-long span between the hissing inhales he claims when Ichiro draws back, but it doesn’t matter, it makes no difference to the arousal spiking high against his spine.

“Yeah,” Ian says from alongside Hiro’s hip, “there he goes” and Hiro feels his whole body convulse in a single long, helpless spasm. Ichiro is fucking down his throat, Rust is driving deep into him; and Hiro is coming, his cock spilling over the hand around him while his body seizes helplessly around the steady movement inside him. He can feel the heat through his entire body, pleasure radiating out into every corner of his existence with each clenching wave of reaction that runs through him; behind him there’s a huff, a “ _Fuck_ ” spit past gritted teeth, but Hiro barely notices the growl of Rust’s voice except for the stutter in the motion inside him as his own orgasm pulls the other boy into pleasure too. Rust’s hands seize at Hiro’s hips, his cock drives forward in a last surge of heat; and Hiro is quivering, his whole body shaking as Marcus keeps stroking him through the overlong force of his orgasm.

“Jesus,” Rust gasps, sounding breathless and undone. “He’s...is he still coming?”

“Think so,” Ian says. “Come on, give Marcus a chance” and there’s movement, the slick drag of Rust’s spent cock sliding back and out of Hiro’s body. The hand at Hiro’s length eases, the friction draws back, and Hiro sags slack with relief, only the brace of the grip at his head keeping him even close to upright. He’s lightheaded, his thoughts are wandering, he thinks he could pass out if only Ichiro would let him go; and then there’s heat against him again, a heavy pressure against his aching entrance, and when the boy behind him rocks forward his cock slides far into Hiro before Hiro can even realize what’s happening.

“God,” Marcus breathes, “He’s so _wet_ ” and he’s moving at once, taking sharp, short thrusts instead of the drawn-out movement Rust seemed to favor. Hiro can feel the heat driving deeper into him than Rust reached; or maybe it’s just the wet of the other boy’s orgasm he’s feeling spread deeper in him with each of Marcus’s motions. He clenches around the pressure, unable to keep himself from bearing down against the slick resistance; and Marcus huffs a laugh behind him, the sound warm and pleased in his throat.

“He’s gonna get hard again,” he announces. “Loves being fucked so much he can’t stay soft.”

“Good thing there’s so many of us,” Ian laughs. “Maybe we can actually satisfy him if we all do our part.”

“Like you are?” Marcus asks. “You don’t even have your pants down yet.”

“I’ll get there,” Ian says. “How’s it going, Ichiro?”

“He’s a natural,” Ichiro declares, sounding somewhat more breathless than he did before, when his tone was all cool composure. Hiro feels the awareness of that like a touch along his spine, that consciousness that it’s him bringing Ichiro closer to pleasure, even if all he’s doing is holding still to the grip of the other’s hands and letting Ichiro fuck down against the tension of his throat. “Wanna try?”

“Later,” Ian says, but Hiro can barely make sense of the words; his vision is starting to blur, his arms starting to shake as Ichiro thrusts in against his mouth. Marcus behind him is a distant pressure, his forward motion a regular force; but Hiro’s air-starved lungs are burning, now, he can’t stop the convulsive motion of his throat straining around the cock blocking off his air. He wonders what will happen if he passes out, wonders if Marcus will stop, if _Ichiro_ will stop; but then Ichiro’s fingers tighten against his scalp, just for a moment, and Hiro realizes that he won’t be finding out right now, at least.

“Jesus,” Ichiro breathes, sounding almost reverent over the word. “He feels--” and his words cut off, giving way to a hiss instead as his stomach flexes, as his hips jolt forward to press tight against Hiro’s lips. Against Hiro’s tongue Ichiro’s cock twitches, against his throat there’s a pulse of wet; and Ichiro huffs a breath of relief, drawing back to work through a few idle thrusts as he rides out the heat of his orgasm. Hiro’s throat is burning, his whole chest tightening with the need to cough, to keep himself from inhaling the wet of Ichiro’s come in his throat; but whatever he manages he does around Ichiro still in his mouth, until by the time the other is drawing back and letting him go Hiro’s mouth is wet with saliva and come both, his tongue heavy with salt and bitter and heat too entangled for him to separate.

“Me next,” Raid says, almost as fast as Ichiro pulls away; and he’s moving quick too, stepping in to grab at Hiro’s hair while Ichiro is still trailing his fingers over the other’s collar. There’s heat at once, this time, pressure forcing Hiro’s wet mouth open for the resistance of another cock immediately; and Raid groans, his whole body resonating with the sound as he pushes forward and into Hiro’s mouth. “ _Yeah_ ” and he starts moving, his thrusts more uneven exploration of Hiro’s mouth than anything else to serve as a counterpoint to Marcus moving through those short, jerky thrusts behind him. Hiro _is_ hard again, now, his cock is swelling up towards his stomach; and then there’s a hand at his shirt, fingers undoing the buttons of his clothing to leave it to fall open across his chest.

“You don’t have to just watch,” Ichiro suggests, amusement hot in his voice as a palm weights at Hiro’s stomach, as fingers drag up his chest. “There’s lots to play with, if you want.” Another hand braces at the back of Hiro’s neck -- Ian’s, he thinks, from the proprietary weight of the touch -- and Ichiro huffs amusement as his fingers drag against Hiro’s chest to flick idly against the hard points of his nipples. “We want him to have a good time, after all.”

Hiro loses track of things a little, after that. There’s too much happening: Raid using his mouth, Marcus using his ass, Ian and Ichiro’s hands wandering across him with pressure too idle to do more than stir anxious arousal in Hiro’s abdomen. His cock swells but neither of them take to stroking him; Ichiro is more interested in his chest, and Ian keeps a hand at the back of his neck and the other toying with the head of Hiro’s cock, or the hanging weight of his balls, or the slick strain of his entrance opening around Marcus’s thrusting length. Hiro wonders, for a brief, insane moment, if Ian won’t push a finger into him, won’t stretch him wider still; but then Marcus moans, sharp and cut-off on heat, and whatever Ian was intending gives way to the pulse of Marcus coming into Hiro instead, his hips bucking forward in tiny rocking movements of heat as his orgasm rushes through him. Marcus makes little whimpering noises in the back of his throat as he comes, faint, high-pitched sounds like he’s gasping, like he can’t quite breathe; but he doesn’t get a chance to catch himself back together before there’s a voice “Out of my way” from behind Hiro, and Marcus pulling away and out of him at once.

“No need to be rough,” Marcus protests, sounding as irritated as anyone can with his voice still dragging heavy over the heat of orgasm; but the other doesn’t spare him any attention at all, even to growl a response at him. He’s pulling at Hiro instead, dragging him back across the floor until Raid slides free of Hiro’s parted lips, and there’s a hand against Hiro’s ass, a thumb pulling against him to stretch him wide as if for the other’s consideration.

“He’s a mess,” the new boy, Hao, declares, sounding more irritated than pleased; but whatever protest he might want to offer apparently isn’t enough to pause his movement, because he’s pushing into Hiro at once, rocking forward to drive the breadth of his cock into the other’s body. Hiro shudders at the friction, his own cock twitching towards his stomach as his throat manages to give up a low whine of reaction, but no one pays him any more attention than the idle touching he’s been getting so far. Hao draws back to take another thrust; Hiro can hear the wet sound of the movement, can feel his thighs going slick with the spill of the other’s action. “Shit, he’s all loose.”

“We can fix that,” Ian says; and immediately, before Hiro can form a guess as to what he means: “Let me at him too,” Raid says, abandoning his hold on Hiro’s hair so he can push to his knees and walk around him instead. “Do you think he can take us both?”

“Dunno,” Hao says, but he sounds more curious than concerned; an arm slides under Hiro’s stomach, pulling back and up to draw him close against the other’s chest. When Hao tips himself sideways Hiro goes with him, his body too slack with heat for him to find the strength to help or resist either one. He ends up lying half-atop Hao beneath him, his shirt falling open over his chest and his cock bobbing towards the flat of his stomach; Hao reaches down for his bottom knee and pulls Hiro’s thigh up towards his chest to make an open invitation of the other’s body for his partner. “Try it and find out.”

Raid takes the offer immediately, without even sparing a glance for Hiro panting for air against Hao’s chest. He steps in close, dropping to a knee in front of Hiro while he looks down to brace his grip at the base of his spit-slick cock; and then, as Hiro is tipping his head down to try to see what’s happening at his hips: “Look up,” a voice says, and that hand is back at his neck, fingers tightening to urge Hiro’s head up and back. Hiro’s gaze swings up, his attention scattering to the force bracing at his neck; and Ian is kneeling in front of him, his lips curving up on the same shadowed smile he gave Hiro in the hallway, when his fingers were sliding down into the waistband of the other’s pants.

“Good,” he soothes, and his fingers at Hiro’s neck go gentle, stroking for a moment like he’s comforting some frightened animal. Hiro would protest this; but he’s trembling through his whole body, edging towards panic and hot with desperate arousal, and the steady weight at his neck _is_ comforting, a fixed point he utterly lacks otherwise. Ian slides his knee closer, lowers his weight down, and it’s then that Hiro sees his open pants and the weight of his swollen cock braced against his fingers. “Open your mouth.”

Hiro does. He wouldn’t protest even if he could find the words; this all seems inevitable, now, as inevitable as the drag of Hao’s hands spreading his legs wide and Raid’s fingers pushing roughly at his entrance seeking to gauge the give of Hiro’s body around the thick heat of Hao’s cock. He’s dizzy, sticky and shaky and incoherent with the heat coursing through him; and he’s hard, still, he thinks his arousal hasn’t truly ebbed since the suggestive dip of Ian’s gaze in the hallway. So he tips his head back, and opens his mouth, and it’s just as Ian’s cock slips in past his lips and against his tongue that Raid gets a finger into him to stretch alongside the slow thrust of Hao’s cock. Hiro groans, feeling the pressure radiate up his spine and knot to almost-fear at the back of his head; but the sound is muffled by Ian sliding down against his throat, and down at his hips Raid is breathing something that sounds like amusement.

“He really can,” he says, and there’s another finger, more pressure pushing at the wet of Hiro’s entrance; Hiro wonders if he might be able to clench against it if it weren’t for that damp, if his whole body weren’t so sticky-slick with the remnants of the others’ pleasure. But he is, and Raid is pushing up and into him, and Hiro’s full-body shudder just makes Hao grunt appreciation behind him, just makes Ian’s hand at the back of his neck tighten as if to hold him still. Hiro’s vision is hazing, going blurry as Raid pulls back to thrust back in; and then the fingers are gone, the pressure has eased, and “I’m gonna try” Raid says, his voice resonant with determination.

Hiro can’t look down to watch. His head is held back by Ian’s grip, his mouth locked to stillness by the heat of the other’s cock; all he can do is judge the strain in his thighs as Hao’s hands close against his knees to spread his legs apart, to hold him as open as possible while Raid settles in against the other two. Hiro reaches out blind, his fingers hitting the fabric of a shirt and closing to a fist; but if it’s Raid he’s touching it makes no difference, the other doesn’t so much as hesitate in fitting the head of his cock against Hiro’s entrance.

“Here we go,” he says, and he’s moving, he’s pushing, Hiro’s whole body is straining with the force; and then Ian rocks forward and against Hiro’s throat, and Hiro jolts with the friction, and eases enough to let Raid slide up into him. His body protests, he can feel the strain shocking up the whole long length of his spine at once; but Raid is groaning a long note of satisfaction, and thrusting in against the wet of Hiro’s body, and all Hiro can do is clutch at the shirt in his hand and choke off barely-restrained panic around the heat filling his mouth. He’s going to break, he’s sure, there’s not space inside him for...but his cock is dripping over his stomach, his balls are so tight at the base he thinks he might come untouched, and whatever panic might be in him he doesn’t want any part of this to stop.

“Jesus,” Raid groans, and “ _Damn_ ,” Hao offers; and then Hao moves, or Raid does, or they both do, Hiro can’t tell the difference anymore. There’s effort in the shoulder under his hold, shifting muscle against the body he’s still lying half-atop; but it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other, too much for his heat-hazed brain to separate the backwards slide of Hao’s cock from the sharp forward drive of Raid’s. Ian is still moving, taking long, languid thrusts into Hiro’s mouth and down his throat; and there are hands, now, too, fingers pushing at Hiro’s shirt and urging his hair back from his face at once. When Hiro blinks he can catch a glimpse of Marcus watching him, his hand pushing at Hiro’s hair as he reaches down to draw the scratch of his nails against the other’s chest; at his hip there’s another hand, a rough hold digging in hard at his skin in what can only be Rust’s vicious grip. There are feather-light fingers at the inside of Hiro’s spread-open thighs, Ichiro’s delicate touch winding up against the sensitive skin in complete disregard of the rough use Hito’s receiving otherwise; and against everything else, sliding carefully over the tremor of his stomach, an uncertain touch Hiro doesn’t think he’s felt before, fingers with unfamiliar calluses printed across the inside of the knuckles. That hand slides down close, pressing between the shift of Raid moving hard over Hiro and down against the tremor of heat in Hiro’s stomach; and then there are fingers at the head of Hiro’s cock, the separate press of five individual fingers pressing hard against heat-swollen skin, and Hiro’s head pushes back against Ian’s hold, his toes curl, his arm flexes, and he comes all over himself, spilling his own pleasure to join the mess the others have already made of him. The force is unbearable, the shuddering tension impossible to stand as it clenches him hard around the pressure moving inside him and the force sliding down his throat; and for the first long seconds, all Hiro can manage to do is to let himself go limp and trembling and let the aftershocks run through him while the others finish with him.

His vision is still blurry when Hao groans and goes still inside him, and it’s barely a breath later when Raid follows his meister’s lead in coming hot into the grip of Hiro’s body. It takes them a few minutes to disentangle their bodies; they’re still figuring themselves out when Ian’s hand pulls Hiro’s head back sharply to brace him in place. Marcus’s fingers in Hiro’s hair shove back to clear the view of his expression; and Ian sighs into relief, and thrusts hard into Hiro’s mouth, and comes against the back of the other’s throat. Hiro’s mouth fills with the taste of salt, his tongue curling against the bitter tang of Ian’s come layered over the lingering taste of Ichiro’s; and Ian pulls back, freeing Hiro to drop his head heavily to the floor and pant wetly for air as first Raid and then Hao slide back and out of him. Hiro blinks heavily, wondering if he’s done yet, wondering if he’ll be left to lie against the cool support of the floor until he can figure out how to pull himself together; and then that delicate touch comes back, skimming just against his ribs to draw a ticklish shudder against Hiro’s spine. Hiro whimpers, his body protesting the effort of that involuntary tremor; and then he’s looking up, his blurry vision is clearing, and it’s Ombre leaning over him, his gaze fixed on Hiro’s face and his fingers pressing against Hiro’s skin. His eyes are dark, his mouth set into a flat line; and at his hips his free hand is curling around his cock, his movement steady and unchanging even as his fingers slide up over Hiro’s chest to press his palm hard against the pound of the other’s heartbeat. Hiro shudders through a breath, feeling like his whole chest is seizing underneath the weight of Ombre’s touch; and Ombre’s lashes dip, his head comes down, and he huffs an exhale as his hand tightens against himself. His fingers dig in at Hiro’s skin, his nails scraping into almost-pain; and in his hand his cock twitches and spurts wet over the tremoring damp of Hiro’s stomach. He strokes himself through his orgasm, letting the drops spill wet across Hiro’s skin; and then he breathes out, and eases his touch, and pulls his hand away so he can get to his feet and pull himself back together. Hiro is left trembling across the floor, salt at his lips and wet at his thighs and heat across his stomach, achy and shaking and not at all sure he is capable of remembering how to exist in himself, much less that he wants to.

“Good work, everyone,” a voice says -- Ian again, clear and pleased from where he’s standing over Hiro’s head. “This was a good first try. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“If he ever comes back to himself,” Rust puts in, still sounding a little rough on heat. “He looks like he’s thinking about passing out on the floor.”

“That’s okay,” Ian soothes. There’s the weight of a knee landing at the floor, fingers sliding into Hiro’s hair to stroke against the back of his head. “He’s worked hard today. I’ll take care of him so he can be ready the next time we want to play around a little.”

A snort of a laugh. “You just want to have another round with him once you get him cleaned up.”

“Mm,” Ian hums, and Hiro can hear the laugh under the sound. “Sure, if he’s up for it.” His hand dips down against the back of Hiro’s neck, his fingers curl in around the weight of the collar at Hiro’s skin. “First I’ll look after him and put him back together.” The hand tightens against Hiro’s neck, a thumb weighting close against the metal studs in the collar. “He’s earned some TLC, after all.” There’s no protest to this, from Rust or anyone else; and Hiro shuts his eyes, and lets himself relax into slack exhaustion against the floor.

It’s unfortunate he’s a meister and not a weapon, he thinks distantly. He’s happier being in other people’s hands than anywhere else.


End file.
